Redemption (6 page)

‘Well, we got him. At least that’s something,’ Franklin decided, putting an optimistic spin on things. ‘While we’re making calls, you might as well notify the rest of your team. I assume you’ve got some names in mind?’

Drake nodded, dragging his thoughts away from Dietrich to concentrate on the job in hand. The way he saw it, he needed three other specialists for this job.

He wanted a general assault and demolitions expert who could handle themselves in a firefight, plus destroy any physical barriers they might encounter; a decent sniper to provide observation and top cover for the team; and an electronics specialist to defeat any security measures on site.

The first role was the easiest to fill.

‘I want Mason in on this. If I have to put up with Dietrich, I need someone else I can rely on.’

An ex-member of the Combat Applications Group, better known as Delta Force, Cole Mason had opted to leave the military at the age of thirty-five rather than take a promotion away from the front line. His speciality had been demolitions, and there was still a possibility they would have to put his skills to the test on this job, but mainly Drake wanted him on board as back-up. If anything happened to him, he knew Cole could take over and lead the team without difficulty.

‘And Frost as our electronic specialist,’ he added. ‘We’ll need her to take out their security system.’

Khatyrgan struck him as a low-tech sort of place, but even simple video cameras could compromise the team. Someone had to be on hand to eliminate them, and he could think of no one better than Keira Frost.

5 foot 2 inches tall and weighing no more than 100 pounds, Frost wasn’t the kind of person one would immediately associate with clandestine operations into maximum security Russian prisons, but appearances could be deceiving. She was ex-US Army, working for their Signals Intelligence division before transferring to the Defence Intelligence Agency. Technically she still worked for them as an outside contractor, but more and more she was transitioning into the Shepherd teams.

She was fully combat trained and, as Drake knew from experience, not afraid to get stuck in despite her diminutive size. He’d once watched her literally throw herself at an armed man twice her size and many times her strength during an operation in Kosovo. He’d almost felt sorry for the guy, seeing the brutal and fiercely aggressive way she wrestled him down.

He didn’t know what kind of experience she had at
high
-altitude parachuting, but if necessary she could tandem jump with another team member. Either way, he wanted her on board.

Franklin had been nodding agreement thus far, obviously having anticipated his choices. ‘Anyone else?’

Drake thought about it for a few moments. ‘Keegan,’ he decided at last. ‘He’s a bit of an old bastard, but he’s the best sniper I can think of.’

Unlike most of their specialists who came from military backgrounds, John Keegan was a former FBI agent, serving in their SWAT teams as a sharpshooter for nearly ten years before leaving in search of better things.

He’d since drifted into CIA fieldwork, operating mostly on independent ops. One didn’t have to read his file to surmise that most of this work involved assassinations, but that seemed to sit just fine with him. As far as he was concerned, it was up to God to sort them out – he was just the delivery boy.

At forty-seven years old he was pushing it a bit in terms of age, but he was fully certified for airborne operations, and his marksmanship was better than Drake and Franklin combined.

And that was it. Four specialists, plus himself. Not a large force for such a daunting operation, but between them they could draw on quite a range of skills and experience. And if the shit hit the fan, they were capable of causing a great deal of trouble.

He just hoped they didn’t have to.

Franklin nodded. Now they had a rough plan of attack, and a list of the men and women needed to carry it out. Things were coming together.

‘All right. Let’s make some calls.’

Chapter 7

PRISONER 62 COULD
hear footsteps in the hallway. Three sets, coming her way. Two were lighter and closer together. The third was slower, heavy and ponderous.

She felt her muscles tense up. It was
him
.

She didn’t know his real name, didn’t know any of the guards’ names for that matter. There were no names in Khatyrgan. Instead she had come to know them by their physical characteristics. There was Bad Breath, Beer Gut and Lazy Eye to name but a few. Hardly the elite amongst the Russian penal system, otherwise they wouldn’t have been stuck in this shithole at the end of the world.

The remoteness of the prison meant they couldn’t go home at the end of their shift, couldn’t relax and let off steam by drinking and fucking the way most men did. They were forced to live here, enduring the bad food and claustrophobic living conditions just like everyone else. They were as much prisoners of Khatyrgan as the people they guarded, and that situation was reflected in their outlook.

Most of the guards were moody and aggressive to varying degrees, sometimes taking out their frustrations on the inmates. It was nothing personal really – they were just bored and pissed off, and even she understood that on some level. She didn’t like it, but she understood.

But the man she feared and hated most, she simply referred to as Bastard.

He was well named.

For him, random acts of violence weren’t enough. He took some kind of macabre pleasure in seeing others suffer, and appeared to devote a great deal of time to dreaming up new ways of indulging his passion.

Stress positions, starvation, sensory deprivation – he had done all of those things and more, but they were really just variations on other people’s ideas. Every so often, Bastard liked to get creative.

For example, he had once taken a dozen prisoners out into the snow-covered exercise yard in the middle of winter, forced them to remove their boots and socks, and left a single pair in the centre of the open space. For the next hour, he had watched from one of the towers as the desperate men fought each other like animals over that pair of boots.

She hadn’t seen it herself, since she was never allowed out of her cell, but she had overheard the guards talking about it. They seemed to hate and fear him almost as much as she did.

Almost, but not quite.

She had become something of a fixation for him. He lusted after her while at the same time hating and despising her; she had seen that look enough times in the eyes of others to recognise it in him. Whereas the other guards had learned a certain respect, her resistance only fired his desire to break her. He had taken her many times when she was cuffed or held down and unable to defend herself, deriving immense pleasure from her impotent rage.

She suspected he was part of the reason the beatings had stopped, and her daily rations had improved beyond
the
starvation level she’d endured before. In his own perverted way, Bastard was trying to look after her so he could break her all by himself.

She sat up just as the bolt was drawn back with a harsh rasp and her cell door thrown open. Standing there were two of the regular guards – Lazy Eye and Rash.

Now in his fifties, she guessed Lazy Eye had suffered a mild stroke at some point, based on the way his left eyelid drooped and the difficulty he had pronouncing certain words. It hadn’t slowed him down much, though – he was still more than happy to employ his fists and boots if he felt like it, letting them do the talking for him.

Rash was a comparatively young man in his thirties, and appeared almost timid and docile compared to his peers. He could perhaps have been considered handsome if it wasn’t for the eczema that constantly plagued him. The skin around his neck was always red raw where he’d shaved and the collar of his uniform chafed, while his hands and forearms were often covered in scabs and welts.

Behind them both, towering like a statue, stood Bastard.

Standing 6 foot 6 inches and weighing at least 300 pounds, he was a massive, dominating physical presence. His uniform struggled to contain his huge barrel chest, wide stooped shoulders, thick bull-like neck and protruding gut.

His facial features were blunt and crude, everything somehow bigger and more pronounced than it needed to be. He must have been at least forty-five, but years of harsh winters, heavy smoking and cheap alcohol had aged him prematurely. The flesh of his face sagged, his skin was sallow and marred by wrinkles and small scars. His wide mouth curved back into a sneer as he eyed her up.

‘Come on,’ he said in Russian, beckoning her out of the cell. ‘Shower.’

The one – and perhaps only – thing the guards took seriously about their duty in Khatyrgan was enforcing personal hygiene. Disease was always a problem, as were lice and other parasites, and given that the guards were often in close physical proximity to the prisoners, particularly while administering beatings, it was preferable to keep such things in check. Those prisoners who refused to wash were beaten and subjected to ten minutes of freezing water courtesy of the nearest fire hose.

Keeping a wary eye on Bastard, she lifted her chin a little and rose up from her mattress. Rash and Lazy Eye gave her plenty of room as she emerged from the cell, keeping their weapons to hand in case she tried anything.

Out of habit she glanced at their side arms, drawing on the vast well of knowledge she possessed on modern weaponry. Makarov PMs; semi-automatic, blow-back-action pistols. Eight-round magazines, firing 9mm full metal jacket projectiles. Effective range, up to 50 metres.

They weren’t elegant weapons, but they were simple, cheap and durable. Just as well, because she doubted the idiots here could handle anything more complex.

Was there a possibility of escape that way? Countless times she had pondered it calmly, with clinical detachment as she followed the familiar route to the shower rooms. Even as broken down as she was, she could certainly take out one man with her bare hands, perhaps even use his weapon to kill a second, but the third would shoot her dead before she could draw down on him. They always came for her in threes.

Bastard led the way, tracing the familiar route past the other solitary confinement cells. She had never made any effort to communicate with her fellow prisoners, but she
was
sometimes curious about who else inhabited this shithole with her. Were they good people or bad? Did they deserve to be here? Did anyone?

Bastard unlocked the security door at the end of the block. It was a huge thing that probably weighed more than he did; the kind of door normally found on bunkers and pillboxes. Beyond the door they passed the cell control station for East Block. Another guard was manning the station, and gave her a leering stare as she passed.

Passing through a second heavy door, they took a sharp turn right, heading down the main concourse that housed the general population. Sleeping three or four to a cell, these were the prisoners considered a little less dangerous, or who required less severe punishment than herself.

It took about five seconds for the first inmate to notice her, then the shouting and abuse started. It seemed they spent a great deal of time thinking about what they would do to her if they were ever alone together, because she heard a new insult every time.

She almost smiled, thinking about what would actually happen if they tried it. Still, at least she encouraged their creativity.

Bastard took his time, letting everyone have a good look at her. She kept her eyes forward, showing no reaction to the disgusting epithets that were hurled her way, and carried on walking.

Almost there.

The shower room was a vast expanse of cracked tiles, mould, rusted pipework and dripping taps. The entire room could accommodate fifty prisoners at a time, but today she had the place to herself. She was always made to shower alone. She did everything alone.

‘Strip,’ Bastard ordered. His commands were always sharp and simple, because he was never sure how much Russian she understood. None of them did – she hadn’t uttered a word since arriving in Khatyrgan.

With deliberate care, she pulled off her boots, trousers and sweat-stained shirt, finally removing the thin T-shirt beneath.

Her clothes lying in a pile by her feet, she stood unashamedly naked before him.

He took his time looking her over. He always did it, just because he could. She didn’t flinch or make any effort to cover herself – there was no point, and she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

At long last he pointed to the row of showers on the left side of the room. ‘Go. You have five minutes.’

She masked a look of surprise. He was being unusually lenient. She had expected some kind of prank by now, but so far things had passed without incident. That made her nervous, but she could see nothing obviously out of place.

Hesitating a moment, she approached the row he’d indicated, the cold wet tiles sending chills up her legs. Sometimes the water was lukewarm enough to be considered almost comfortable, other times it was freezing as if it had come straight from the prison’s cold water tanks. She’d always suspected the guards could somehow control the temperature of the flow.

Bracing herself for a jet of cold water, she selected a tap at random and reached out to switch it on.

Bang!

Something leapt out from the tap with an audible crack, striking her with such force that she was thrown backward against the tiled wall opposite. She hit hard, slumping to the floor, her ears ringing and with bright
blobs
of light flashing before her eyes. She couldn’t move. Her entire body was paralysed, muscles locked tight as waves of pain flowed through her.

Vaguely, through the fog in her mind, she became aware of laughter. Blinking and struggling to focus, she managed to look over at Bastard and the two other guards, snorting and laughing with amusement.

‘Did you see her go?’ she heard Lazy Eye say in Russian. ‘She came right off the ground!’

Bastard was beaming with pride at his accomplishment. ‘See? I told you it would work.’